by T S Florence
Ragnar, a man who relished battle, was one of the few men left who fought with the same fury that he had begun with. Ragnar, the man born for battle. A man as hard as any Ivar knew. His blood soldiers.
Ivar saw a part of the wall next to him faltering, one of his men taking an axe to the crown of his head, with blood spilling out, he fell to his knees. Ragnar sidestepped, attempting to fill his spot, but the gap was too big, and left Ivar open and vulnerable. Seeing this, Ragnar attempted to step back, to protect Ivar’s flank, but it was too late. A spear had been thrown by a Scot, landing in Ivar’s leg, causing pain to shoot through his body. The spear stuck out like a barb on a rose, weighing him down. He felt his strength beginning to dissipate as he continued to hold his sword. But he fought on, knowing that if he died, they would all die. But if he lived? Hell, there was always a chance out of Ivar the Clever was alive.
“Protect our leader” Skald boomed, as he and Ragnar stepped forwards, ensuring Ivar was protected, but he stepped forward a second too late, as an arrow landed in Ivar’s chest. It was close to the arrow that had landed in his left shoulder, just days earlier, the wound that Isla had healed for him, and healed it so well that all that was left to show was a tiny pink scar. A good woman. Ivar thought, admiring the work she had done. My woman. I’m sorry I will no longer be able to protect you, my princess. Ivar looked down at his body, growing dizzy. He was losing feeling in his left leg, and the arrow in his chest was causing heavy bleeding.
A distant noise sounded, just loud enough for Ivar’s ears to hear over the top of the screaming Scots and the bagpipes, and the howling of dying men and men relishing in their battle. What is that noise? It continued, becoming clearer, and closer.
English trumpets. We’re really fucked now if the English have come, Ivar thought, knowing that the English would enjoy such an opportunity to wipe out Ivar the Cruel and his band of fearless warriors.
He saw the banners of the approaching English party. White and Gold. He recognised those colors, and they brought a smile to his face. Why am I smiling. Newcastle. Those were the colors of Henry’s Family. Isla?
Suddenly, an almighty crash sounded from behind the Scots, and the pressure against their shield wall began to fade. And then he saw her, a golden-haired princess atop a great white horse. She sat straight and proud, her eyes scanning his shield wall.
Isla
It was a terrible sight. The small shield wall of no more than fifty Northmen was being pummelled by more than three hundred Scotsmen, and it appeared as if more than a hundred Scotsmen had already been killed. The 500 men that Isla Was advised were available turned into 800 when the men heard it was Isla that would be leading them. Who would have thought, men would so willingly follow a woman into battle?
Isla stood amongst her men on a great white horse, her heart thundering in her chest, terrified that Ivar might be hurt. Her men knew what to do, her military commander setting up formations of men, before charging in.
Slowly, the remaining Scots began to flee, causing her men to fight even more fiercely, pushing forward. The Scots retreated down the hill and into the valley. Isla’s men stopped pursuing the Scots, once they reached the top of the hill, holding the higher ground, knowing that the Scots would never attack up a hill while outnumbered three to one.
Isla galloped forwards, the shield wall unmoving. She could hear the gasping of the great Northmen, exhausted. The ground was pooled with blood, and she looked down, to see they were ankle deep in it. Scots were piled up around them, a sign of their terrifying ability to slaughter any opponent in any condition. But they would have died if Isla did not arrive, that much she could see.
They had been slipping backwards, getting pushed by the greater number of Scots, and getting closer to the cliff behind them. After some moments, the Northmen recognised Isla, and their shield wall dismantled. Then she saw him. Ivar the Cruel. Ivar the Fearless. Ivar Bjornson. My Ivar.
He was barely conscious, his eyes fluttering as his head lifted and dropped. A spear lodged in his leg, and an arrow in his chest. Has the arrow hit his heart? Isla’s chest tightened as she looked at the great warrior she had fallen in love with. Her own men were cautious near the Vikings, but Isla had already jumped from her horse, running into their shield wall, the bottoms of her linen skirt getting drenched with blood, as she took Ivar in his hands.
“Bring my medicine, herbs and my healers,” Isla commanded her men. These men were well-trained, and within a minute, she had everything she needed.
“I do not want to go to Valhalla without you,” Ivar said to Isla, as she held him.
“You will not die today, Ivar Bjornson, and that is an order” Isla, said, trying to sound assertive, yet the sobs in between words betrayed her. Blood flowed heavily as the spear was pulled from his leg. If he was still alive now, then she knew that the arrow had not pierced his heart, and she thanked God.
She had the assistance of Newcastle’s most experienced healers working on stemming the blood and patching the wounds, but by the time they were finished, he was unconscious, and Isla was unsure if she would ever hear him speak again.
“He will be coming back to Newcastle with me,” Isla said to Ivar’s men, as she stood over him protectively.
“Then we come too,” Ragnar said, stepping forward, looking at Ivar. “And the rest of you men, go home to your families.”
* * *
They moved quickly. Ivar had not woken since the day before, when he had fallen unconscious while Isla worked on healing him. Isla looked never strayed far from the cart that he was carried in, watching him for any signs of movement. As she got tired of riding her horse, she finally decided to hop in the cart, lying with Ragnar’s unconscious body. Even while not awake, he was a fearsome sight. The scar on his face, the blood still covering his body, the muscles, the size of him. He was a terrifying figure, which caused Isla to think back to the day she had first laid eyes on him, a young, powerful warrior, wearing his great white bear fur, riding with his father into Newcastle.
When they arrived back to Newcastle, Isla had him taken to his own room, where he was under lock and key, to prevent anyone from entering without her knowing. She had other keys given to Ragnar and Skald, in case of any emergencies.
Ivar
Ivar awoke early in the morning. His head pounded from dehydration, his lips cracked, his mouth dry. He went to sit up, causing his chest to remind him of the serious damage he had taken. He immediately lay back down, suddenly feeling the pain in his leg, as well. Scotland. I was injured. We were going to die, what happened? And where am I?
Ivar’s memory of Isla had been erased during the time he was unconscious. Am I in Scotland? I must be, where else? I am a captive, for sure! But why have they healed me? And healed me well.
He tried to sit up, causing himself to groan in pain. He heard movement outside his door, a key entering a lock, and the next thing he saw took his breath away. It was Isla. In a white, linen dress. Her golden locks made her look like an angel. An audible gasp left her pretty lips as she saw he was awake. She slammed the door behind her, running to him.
“I don’t understand, what has happened?” Ivar asked her.
“You don’t remember?” Isla asked in return.
“I do not, are my men ok?” Ivar asked.
“Some died, most live,” Isla said.
“Thank the gods, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Ivar said.
“That is your own fault, firstly for leaving me in Newcastle, and secondly for going to Scotland, you stupid man,” Isla said, her face flushed, yet she could not help but put her hands on his body as she looked at him, wide-eyed.
“Did you heal me?” Ivar asked.
“I did, I think the reason you live is because you said you did not want to go to Valhalla without me,” Isla said, a cheeky grin on her face.
“I still believe it now. I cannot live without you, and I will not make the same mistake of leaving this place without you knowing,” Iv
ar said.
“Well, it will be difficult for you to leave, considering you are my prisoner,” Isla said.
“I am your prisoner?” Ivar asked, perplexed.
“I have just decided so. As ruler of these lands, I hereby place you under arrest. You are not to leave the castle without my permission,” Isla said, placing a kiss on his lips.
“Well, I dare not upset the queen, for my own safety,” Ivar said, coughing out a weak laugh.
He took her hand in his, gazing at her, How did this beauty decide to love me?
“We must marry,” Ivar said.
“What?” Isla said? Shocked at the suggestion.
“Then you cannot hold me prisoner if I am your husband,” Ivar said.
“You are mistaken, once I have you married, you will be my captive, for ever and always,” She said, gazing into his eyes.
After four weeks, Ivar began to move more easily. He could breathe without pain in his chest, and he could walk on both legs without assistance.
He began training with Ragnar and Skald and Isla’s men after five weeks.
18
Isla
Watching Ivar begin to walk and move again so quickly filled Isla with a an intense longing to jump into his arms, curl up, and ask him to hold her and never again let go. When she saw that he was fighting again with her own men after five weeks, she couldn’t believe her eyes. Even her own head of house guard, Edward, could not keep up with the furious pace that Ivar chose to go at during his sparring sessions. The guards appeared to quickly remember why this injured man was the most feared warrior in all of England.
“I think it is time for me to return to my village soon,” Ivar said to Isla, at the head of the dinner table in her dining hall.
Isla almost choked on her chicken when she heard the words come out of his mouth. “You will not be going anywhere,” Isla said.
“I am Ivar the Clever, slayer of kings, uniter of armies, and I have hundreds of men waiting for my command,” Ivar said incredulously.
“And I am Isla,” Isla said.
Ivar looked at her, confusion on his face. “You would keep me here against my will,” Ivar said, looking at her angrily, his knuckles white as he gripped the sharp dinner knife in his hand.
Ivar
I must admit, I do enjoy the idea of being trapped by this gorgeous princess, the princess who I love and cannot live without, but I must get back to my village and divide my gold.
“You will not be leaving, my guards will prevent it,” Isla said.
“And why is that?” Ivar said.
“Payback, partly. And partly because you are not wholly well. You cannot travel with just Ragnar and Skald through England,” Isla said.
“Ha. We three could take near an Entire English battalion,” Ivar scoffed, humored at Isla’s protection of him. “I would take you as a captive again if it meant being a free man,” Ivar continued.
“That is a threat against your regent?” Isla asked, looking at him, pulling herself closer to him.
“It seems necessary,” Ivar said.
“Then take me,” Isla said, looking at him, with her bright blue eyes.
And so Ivar stood, holding out his hand, for Isla to take.
Isla
Once they reached the foot of the stairs that led to Isla’s bedroom, Ivar scooped her up over his shoulder, just like the days he had carried her while she was his captive.
Still so strong, Isla could feel her intimate parts beginning to heat at his touch.
He carried her up the stairs, feeling her ample behind that was wiggling next to his face as he took the steps two at a time. He burst into her room, bolting the door behind her, and threw her onto the bed.
“Princess, you have two options, you let me leave, or I will do whatever I want with you, regardless of your objections,” Ivar said, causing her stomach to twist with anticipation, her intimateness beginning to flow.
“Well, I can’t let you leave, Viking,” she said, as she felt her face flush under his heavy gaze.
She looked up and down his body, as he took off his top, revealing his scars. His member between his legs had started to pitch a tent, causing Isla’s heart to pound in her chest. It had been weeks since she had seen him like this.
Ivar grabbed her by her feet, and hauled her to the end of the bed. He ripped her gown in two, from the hem to her breasts, leaving her with only a thin night shift underneath. He ripped this off in the same fashion, leaving her nude, with her legs spread, for his eyes to feast.
She gasped heavily as he takes her in, his firm hands gripped at her thighs. Every inch of his body was hard and strong, as he removes his pants for her eyes to see all. He moves over the top of her, kissing her urgently, as if they did not have all the time in the world.
He used a piece of her ripped linen to tie her hand to a bed post. She gasps at the realisation.
“Ivar…” she says, her eyes wide.
“Silence, princess,” he grunts, his eyes alight with passion.
He used another piece of torn linen to tie her other hand to the second bed post, leaving her defenseless and naked on her bed. Her nipples were hard, displaying her arousal to him, the junction between her thighs throbbing with anticipation.
He moved his head down between her legs, to taste her womanly parts. She wrapped her legs around his head, pulling his head hard against her, causing him to emit a low moan, as he ran his tongue across her.
Writhes underneath him, gasping in pleasure, pulling at the linen that has her tied to the posts, as his tongue flicks inside her, stroking, kissing, nipping, grabbing at her legs, her breasts, running his hands along her stomach.
Finally, he moves forward, and pushes his tip against her parts. She is more ready for it than ever in her life. She lost all sensation of the rest of her body, besides that of his hardness filling her. She felt him pumping, slow and rhythmic, his skin slapping against her with each thrust.
He slapped her rump, causing her to yelp in ecstasy, before beginning to quicken his pace. He crashed his lips against hers, in a desperate, passionate kiss, as he gave her all of him. She felt a sensation beginning to build in her intimateness, the same sensation she’d felt before with Ivar doing the same things. He began to moan loud, his thrusts becoming jerky as he started to lose control, before finally, they erupted in climax together, their sweaty, passionate love causing him to collapse besides her. He lazily reached over, untying her hands, and she held herself against him, smelling him, feeling him, tasting him.
“Marry me,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I do not want to continue my life without you as my wife.”
19
Ivar
Ivar’s heart beat in his chest like Thor’s hammer, as he watched the golden haired princess walk down the aisle. It seemed as if she walked in slow motion, her eyes fixed to him. Because she had no family members left alive, she walked down the aisle alone. This is the last time you will ever need to walk alone, my princess.
“Your last few moments of freedom, Viking. How does it feel?” Isla asked, with a devilish smile.
“I thought about fleeing for my life, princess, but I feared for my life should you pursue me. I know how you can be when you are determined to do something,” Ivar, looking into her eyes.
“So where are we going to live, now?” Isla asked.
“I spent enough time dragging you across all of England. I will spend some time following you now,” Ivar said.
The wedding day went perfectly. It was the first day of spring, and the lavender fields that surrounded the church gave out a beautiful aroma.
My father told me that women make men weak. But I’m sorry my father, you are wrong. When a man finds the right woman, she will make him the strongest man alive. And I have just married that woman.
Isla
Isla took inspiration from the Viking festivals for her wedding party. There were candles throughout the great hall, ribbons hanging from he roof, musicians playing instr
uments and poets singing. Men wrestled and women talked and danced and sang.
That night, after they had finished making love for their first time since marriage, Isla lay on top of Ivar, feeling more whole and complete than she ever had in her life.
Epilogue
6 months later
Ivar